


To More Than Friends

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Drunk Sex, Hook-Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: A random connection, a chance to prove to himself that he could still find new people, that he could reach out into the world and someone would reach back.





	To More Than Friends

**Author's Note:**

> This started as crack to piss off an asshole, and then, it got serious. This is a direct sequel to my fic, "To New Friends", which should be read first. Oops. It's still 3.5k+ words of spite.
> 
> Kiss kiss, asshole anon.

Foggy is drunk, but he isn’t too drunk to miss the incredibly significant look his new buddy gives him before he slides off his stool and ambles off to the men’s room. 

And Foggy’s drunk, but it’s not enough to make him follow immediately. In fact, he thinks, sullenly gripping his glass -- he’s moved on from the whiskey he didn’t really like to the tequila he liked maybe a little too well -- it’s not enough to make him follow at all. Then he hears a smug little voice in the back of his head (where smug little voices always seem to hang out, from his experience) that says, “yeah, you wouldn’t want to do anything  _ risky _ , now would you?”

He hates that little voice, but it only laughs at him louder when he downs the rest of the tequila and taps the bar for another. It sounds like Matt’s laugh, and that’s really the breaking point for him, that’s really the last fucking straw; he pushes the new glass away, still full, and heads to the restroom.

David doesn’t grab him or try to crowd him into a corner. What David does is look up from where he’s standing, fiddling with something on his phone, and smile in a way that’s kind of shy, kind of sultry.

It helps that David’s taller than Foggy. It makes the way he slouches into something approaching cute, rather than feeling like he’s ducking out of reach. Which he certainly doesn’t do when Foggy moves toward him; no, he pockets his phone immediately, and absolutely yields into the pull when Foggy gets his fingers in his hoodie, dragging him in. 

His mouth tastes like gin, and he kisses like someone who hasn’t done it in a while; a little wild, desperate for a rhythm, but willing to acquiesce to what he was given. Foggy kind of likes that, kind of likes the way David hesitates before bringing his hands up to sink into his hair, holding him with hands that are a little cold, a little dry. Whatever David does for work, whatever kind of person he is when he’s not drinking alone and looking miserable about it, it doesn’t involve moisturizing. 

Foggy doesn’t realize they’re backing up until David’s pushed him up against the door, and one of those hands leaves his hair to twist the lock. He laughs breathlessly, and David chuckles along after a second before Foggy shuts him up again, pushing up into his space. 

It’s artless and the taste of second-hand booze really has no business being that good, and really, Foggy hates the way his brain works sometimes.  Because David shifts his hand to trail long fingers against the soft curve of Foggy’s jaw, and all Foggy feels is the cold curve of David’s wedding ring, and he has to pull away, sighing.

“You’re married,” he says flatly, something petulant twisting in his voice, because really, it’s not  _ fair _ . Foggy has enough shit going on without adding ‘drunk bathroom sex with a married dude’ to it. He wants this, a hookup that’s maybe meaningless but certainly exciting, certainly memorable. He wants something to make him feel like he’s doing more than surviving. He’s tired of just making it through, one day to the next.

He wants to connect to someone so badly, he almost feels like he might cry.

“Hey,” David says gently, and damn him for sounding so sweet, so much like he cares. Foggy can’t help but look back up at him as his hair is brushed back away from his eyes, a gesture too tender for what they are. “It’s complicated.”

Foggy is getting the impression that David is as desperate for something as he is, needs this kind of raw connection too. Still, he pushes a hand between them, stopping David from taking another kiss. “Yeah, I don’t want to help make it  _ more _ complicated, okay?”

“Complicated,” David repeats, voice a little rough, “like I’m looking for an apartment in Alphabet City, because she doesn’t know if we  _ belong _ together any more.”

This time, when David leans in, Foggy lets him. He could be lying, but Foggy has always been pretty good at catching lies, spun from anyone but Matt. David’s kiss is gentle this time, barely ghosting over his lips. 

“Complicated like I watched her kiss my best friend,” David goes on, and there’s something about the way he says it, this bitter twist to it, that implies that the infidelity he’d witnessed was as much his fault as the one he was partaking in. The sound of it almost breaks Foggy’s heart. “Complicated like she took the ring off, but I can’t. I might die if I do.”

And is it really infidelity, Foggy wonders, if the couple in question is separated? Does it really matter when he wants it this bad, David’s soft lips and his cool hands and his brilliant blue eyes, so sad now, so hopeful. 

He could be lying. He could have made the whole thing up from whole cloth, to get Foggy’s guard down, to lead him in so it would be easier to hurt him later. 

Foggy’s drunk enough to decide he doesn’t care. He’s sober enough that, when David pushes him into the door again, kissing down from his lips and over his jaw, to the softness of his neck, he sighs and accepts that whatever else goes on, he’s not having a quickie in this nasty dive bar bathroom. Locked door or no, that’s just not happening.

He allows his head to fall to the side, gasping at the feeling of teeth on his neck, the foreign scrape of that thick beard. He likes it, he realizes, and almost laughs; he’s always gone for clean shaven men, thought they looked tidier, but here, right now, he loves the intensity of that warmth, that oddly soft roughness. 

When David’s hand starts working Foggy’s shirt out of his trousers, Foggy almost stops him. But there’s something about the way David doesn’t hesitate, the way his fingers slip under the hem, shoving Foggy’s undershirt up and pressing his palm over the softness of Foggy’s belly, hissing a sharp noise like whatever he’s feeling is so good he can’t hold the sound back. It makes Foggy feel good the way sex usually doesn’t; he feels a distinct lack of self consciousness.  

David feels him up in quick, eager gestures, taking the time to run a thumb over Foggy’s nipple, making him gasp. David chuckles and, to Foggy’s vague disbelief, starts to lower himself to his knees. Foggy wants it; he knows exactly what David is going to do and it excites him, the idea of getting blown in a public restroom, a guy who was really more an intimate stranger than a friend holding his hips to the door, that beard rubbing his thighs with every move -- oh, yeah, he very much likes that idea.

Still, he grips onto David’s upper arms and holds him, keeping him upright.

“You wanna go somewhere?” he asks, and colors at the way David seems to look both deeply insecure and extremely hopeful. “I can hail a cab, maybe? It’s just -- I’m a lawyer, right? Getting a public indecency charge…”

David laughs, then, but it’s all self consciousness, it’s the kind of nervous Foggy thinks he should be feeling. But Foggy has never been more certain about a hookup; he’s maybe never been so certain in his life. He wants this, and if he can get it, he’s going to take it. Matt’s ugly, biting laughter from the back of his head can go fuck itself -- he will have this, just not right here, more than a little drunk in a really gross bathroom.

Foggy kisses David on impulse, and that seems to relax some of whatever nervousness David is feeling, because he responds with a sloppy sort of eagerness. Foggy wonders for a moment how long David has gone without, and decides immediately that he doesn’t want to think about it. He just wants the sensation, the rush of good feelings; he doesn’t need the sentiment.

“I’ve got a room a few blocks away. It’s not like, a nice room, but it’s private.” David’s grin is somewhere between teasing and hopeful, and it’s such an honest look. “That a good enough ‘somewhere’, Foggy?”

It is. 

They leave the bathroom too close to one another for discretion, but still, no one is paying attention to them. Once they’re both paid up -- Foggy splits his last tequila, half for him and half for David, who frowns tightly against the taste but throws back the end of his gin like it’s water -- they grab their coats and head out. 

David walks like trying not to be noticed is a habit, maybe one he’s trying to break. He sinks into the warmth of his coat and keeps his hands in his pockets. They talk as they go about dumb stuff; the lingering cold of spring, a mutual hatred of snow, a teasing pseudo-argument on the merits of facial hair. Foggy thinks, dully, that he and David could be friends, real friends, and wonders for a moment if he shouldn’t --

But he won’t. He wants this too much to stop it now, and he’s practically bouncing in his impatience while David takes his time with the lock. 

As soon as the door is shut, Foggy grabs David, kissing him, pushing him toward the bed. David seems to appreciate the forcefulness, groans into the kiss and drags Foggy down with him when he’s pushed onto the mattress. Foggy appreciates the lanky leanness of this man, the way he grabs on and keeps pulling, like he can’t stand the idea that Foggy might back away at any time. 

Straddling David’s hips, it’s extremely clear to Foggy that he is not too drunk. The bulge Foggy feels each time he shifts to kiss David better is prominent and hot, and Foggy doesn’t know what he wants more, to get sucked off by this guy or to let him fuck him. 

David seems to have no such uncertainty. David’s hands have been on his ass since they made it to the bed and show no sign of wanting to be elsewhere. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Foggy asks, letting himself grind down against David’s groin and feeling the answering squeeze of those long fingers as David chuckles.

“I’m seeing the merit of relocating,” David says, his eyes bright. “What about you? Still worried about fighting with your, uh, partner?”

“Fuck him,” Foggy says, a little too aggressive for the dismissal he’s aiming to make, and he gasps when David bucks up against him, pulling Foggy hard against him and circling his hips.

“I’d rather fuck you,” David says, an utterly cheesy line, worse for the fact that it actually works. Maybe because David sounds so intensely sincere. 

They get undressed  in a hurry after that, barely helping each other. They might both be drunk, but they also both are functional enough to realize that they know how to navigate their own clothes better than anyone else. Foggy can’t help the hungry little noise that leaves him when David gets free of his trousers and kicks aside his underwear. The look David gives him is amused and pleased, like he knows Foggy is already trying to figure out how to get that inside of himself as soon as absolutely possible.

Dragging his eyes away, Foggy sits back down on the bed, resting his hands on David’s waist when he steps in close, leaning down to kiss him again. David’s skin jumps under his hands, like David’s not used to being touched, but he leans into every shift of Foggy’s palms, and that’s a good enough sign that this is what they both want. “You got lube around here somewhere?” he asks, letting his hands wander to the angle of David’s hips, thumbs pressing just above his cock.

“Lucky you, I got condoms too,” David says, pushing Foggy flat and climbing on him. His kisses are intense, and Foggy wonders for a second if David’s thinking of someone else, if the passion behind this is only paid to him because he’s a warm, willing body and David has no one else. He runs a hand down the long line of David’s neck to his shoulders, feeling the wiry firmness of him, and no, no he’s not built enough to pretend this is Matt, and he’s so very obviously male so Foggy could never pretend he was with some girl, and really, he doesn’t want to.

He wants this to be what it is, and if David’s using him to try fulfilling some fantasy, then that’s on him, but the soft way David murmurs his name suggests that maybe David wants exactly this too. A random connection, a chance to prove to himself that he could still find new people, that he could reach out into the world and someone would reach back. 

Eventually, David stretches out over Foggy and he rummages around in the bedside drawer of the shitty hotel night stand, grunting a soft noise of irritation when he can’t blindly find what he’s feeling for in the first try. It’s artless and fumbling and Foggy loves it because it’s so perfectly natural. David doesn’t pretend to be suave or sexy and it’s good because suave and sexy wouldn’t work on this man.

Foggy gives David a weak shove and David mutters an apology, but he’s grinning when he pulls back, holding up a small bottle of lube. He sounds triumphant when he shakes it and says, “got it!”, and Foggy can’t help the little laugh that leaves him, snatching the bottle away.

“Lay down,” He orders, because David seems to like being bossed around a bit, and Foggy has a pretty good idea of how he wants to tackle to issue of getting as much of David in him as possible. David only hesitates for a second before he gets on the bed -- that’s definitely one thing this hotel has going for it; the bed is lumpy and hard, but it’s plenty big enough for them to fool around on -- and Foggy kneels beside him.

They’re both a little sobered by the walk here and by the simple passing of time, but they’re still just two half-drunk guys, eager and handsy and trying to ignore how shitty their lives have gotten lately. David seems to like Foggy’s hair; he threads his fingers through what’s left of the length and skates over where it’s close cropped, petting Foggy as if he can distract him from the fact that his hurried attempts at prepping himself were  _ definitely not enough _ .

Gasping a little, because honestly, he keeps thinking  _ this has to be it _ and there’s always  _ more _ , Foggy looks down at David, and they both end up giggling, even with the tears building up in the corner of Foggy’s eyes. So they stay like that, neither of them willing to move, holding each other and giggling with Foggy hovering, most of a (frankly  _ ridiculously _ large) dick buried in his ass. 

It’s not a bad moment, Foggy has to admit. Even the burn of the penetration isn’t bad, the telling ache of being stretched too far too fast; it’s not that bad. It’s kind of fun, actually, exciting. “Jeeze, you’re big,” he exhales, like it needs to be said. And David is cute, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, the way his face goes just a shade darker. 

Foggy is all gentle, round shapes and David is angles and joints. It shouldn’t work together so well, they shouldn’t fit like this, and yet when Foggy finally,  _ finally _ has David all the way inside him, while his brain is short-circuiting from how amazingly full he feels, he has to admit there’s something about the way they fit together that’s just  _ nice _ . 

“Alright,” Foggy breathes, smoothing his hands over David’s shoulders, looking for the right place to grip for leverage. His palm ghosts over a scar on David’s chest, and then David  _ moves _ and Foggy can’t really think anymore. Not about scars, not about being sad, not about the weird kind of hazy drunk feeling on the forefront of his mind; he can’t  _ think _ , but he can certainly feel. David’s dry hands on his hips, David’s pelvis against his ass, David’s --

Hanging his head and gasping, Foggy clutches as David’s shoulders, working as best he can with the rhythm David establishes. 

“Touch me,” he demands, but it comes out shaky, soft, bordering on a plea. David chuckles, squeezing on the handfuls he’s already got, and Foggy grits his teeth and glares, an expression he knows can only be ridiculous when he’s riding the guy for all he’s worth. “C’mon, David, don’t be an asshole.”

And David laughs at him, and Foggy is laughing too, breathless and thoughtless and happy. David closes a hand around Foggy’s cock and looks up at him, eyes dancing in some personal amusement. “Set the pace. Two-way street, man.”

Working together, Foggy can pick up a lot of personal tells about David; he can tell when his back starts to hurt and when he’s getting close, when he starts trying to slow down to draw it out, the excitement he so clearly feels when Foggy won’t  _ let _ him slow down. 

Afterward, David lets Foggy collapse against him, not seeming to care much about the come smearing between them. When David finally shoves gently, no harder than when Foggy had shoved him earlier, Foggy finally rolls to the side, David disenganging their bodies and disposing of the condom. 

“You want some water?” David asks, sounded delightfully tired and much more relaxed. “I think I got a couple bottles rolling around…”

Foggy curls close to David and slings his arm over his chest instead, and David lays there staring up at the ceiling and smiling this faint, somewhat goofy smile for a minute. Foggy likes that, they way neither of them seem to feel awkward about this or what they’d just done; they’re both tired but pleased. Foggy, for one, feels better than he’d thought possible at the start of his night, after the fight with Matt.

_ Matt _ . 

“I feel like I should tell you something,” David says slowly, and Foggy feels his heart do something funny. There’s nerves there, and a dull sort of fear -- god, what was he going to confess and how was it going to stack against the secrets that had always been kept from him by his other friend -- but there’s a sort of pleasure too. For David to want to be honest.

So he sits up just enough to get his elbows under him, and braces himself for the worst.

David is quiet, but unflinching. He seems to be weighing how to say what he needs to say, and then, “My friend, the one who disappeared a few months ago.”

Oh god. 

“The one who kissed your wife?”

David flinches at that; it’s subtle, but it’s there. “Yeah. That guy. You, uh, you know him too.”

“Would you just rip the fucking bandaid off?”

“Frank Castle.” The name leaves David in a rush, like a held breath being released, and Foggy sinks back onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. “My friend is… I mean, I haven’t seen him in months and if I ever see him again after he sees that I fucked shit up with Sarah he’s probably gonna kill me, but he’s a got this really bad habit of showing up out of the blue beaten to shit and needing help and like -- if this is a one time thing then this was super fucking stupid of me to say, but I wanted to be honest. Because he might show up one day. And if you and I are… friends, I don’t want it to be built on a lie.”

A heavy pause, during which Foggy refuses to look up. Finally he grunts into the pillow, “Anything else?”

Like David somehow being connected to the nightmare that was The Punisher -- called him a  _ friend _ \-- wasn’t bad enough.

Like it wasn’t a deal breaker.

And David is laughing again, moving on the bed enough that Foggy begrudgingly looks up at him to find that he’s sitting up, hands over his face, fingers digging into his wild hair.

“ _ What _ ?” Foggy demands, because he doesn’t find anything about this particularly funny.

“Just. You’re not -- like you have a right to be like, mad at me and I probably deserve it, but like. I really thought you’d just leave. Case closed, don’t want any part of that. Hell,  _ I _ don’t want any part of my shitshow of a life. But you’re just laying there and you ask for  _ more _ .”

Foggy makes a soft noise, neither accusing nor forgiving. “I’m comfortable.” He says, as prim as he can manage when he’s literally laying around naked in a dingy hotel room, enduring post-coital confessions with a guy he’d just met at a bar. He can’t help asking after a bit of a pause, tentatively, “ _Is_  there more?”

David gives him a look and Foggy sighs. 

Well. Honesty was important in a relationship. And there’s a part of him, a part that seems to grow the more he thinks about it, overwhelming the gut instinct to be mad about somehow  _ always _ being no more than two-degrees of separation from vigilante bullshit; there’s a part of him that is so fucking overwhelmed at the idea that David would fess up unprompted, would open up to him so willingly. That someone respects him enough to want his friendship and want that friendship to be built on honesty.

“Well.” Foggy takes a deep breath, because this is going to be difficult, but it’s like David said. It’s a two-way street. “While we’re being honest about our friends…”


End file.
